


people remain what they are; even if their faces all apart

by acesam



Series: on loving a fighter [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: (3x06 talk basically), F/F, M/M, group home au, homophobia tw, implied/referenced child abuse tw, implied/referenced rape tw, panic attacks tw, short term 12 au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 07:16:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4470194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acesam/pseuds/acesam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Look into my eyes so you know what it's like, to live a life not knowing what a normal life's like."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if people are already aware, but the quotes in the summary are quotes from Short Term 12. Title is also a quote, but from Bertolt Brecht.  
> About the Gallaghers, I'm just gonna say they're all 10 years older than they were in the first season?? Since this show doesn't really give a crap about timelines and ages (no, Shameless, you cannot experience two full pregnancies in a year), I'll leave it at that. Who knows, maybe Liam's still 3 even after 10 years, since he can't seem to reach 4.  
> Comments and criticism would be nice?? I don't know, I'm one of those people that gets extremely anxious when she publishes something, so I just automatically assume everyone hates it and me. I'm honestly not sure how I even managed to publish the last 2 installments in this series.  
> Also, after reading the S6 spoilers, I would like to officially change this series' name into "Mickey deserved better". And my life, while we're at it. Tattoo it on my forehead.

The day before Fiona's birthday is hectic, to say the least. Apparently the Gallaghers have a tradition that, since they don't see each other as much as they'd like, they all take off work during birthdays, all sleep over in their old rooms, and party as hard as they can. Mickey's not sure how they haven't gotten fired yet, considering they have like, a thousand birthdays to celebrate every year but whatever. Not like he cares.

He doesn't normally take days off work, to be honest. He used to be able to call in sick without any guilty feelings while he was only working as staff, but after him climbing his way to the top (the top not really being that high, to be honest), he just doesn't feel good leaving all of them hanging like that. Which is kind of dumb, it's not like they can't look after the kids themselves, they do just fine while he's away, but still. And even _when_ he takes days off, he makes sure to call in every few hours to see how everyone's holding up. Karen used to cuss him out about that, interpreting his over protectiveness as a stab to her working abilities, but it's not that. It's just that, well, he knows he shouldn't feel like that, but as long as these kids are in his home they're his kids. His responsibility.

Ian used to go fucking nuts if Mickey came to work sick. He'd flip his shit and would keep nagging him if he felt okay, if he wanted any tea, if he needed aspirin. He remembers one time, back when they were trying to work their way into a relationship, that he ended up having a really bad stomach flu, not like a normal infection, but rather him puking out every intestines he had in his body and them some. Mickey still wanted to go to work, because there was supposed to be a newbie coming in today, and Ian had forced him to stay in bed by aggressively cuddling him for a whole day. He wouldn't even let him go to the bathroom, he was that determined. Remembering that day always made him smile and calm down a little, because after all, spending the day in bed with Ian wasn't _that_ bad. He couldn't understand why they couldn't just do that instead of go to that dumb birthday party for Ian to not even be able to drink because of his meds and for Mickey to get judged by his in-laws. Fucking fantastic.

He keeps tapping his gloved fingers on his desk, suppressing the urge to scratch his wrist. It's a weird tick he has, scratching his wrist when he's nervous, but he's trying to cut back. His wrists are already scratched raw, he doesn't need another scar on his body. He's had enough to last a lifetime.

Oh, and that. That's also why this trip sucks so much, because while it is true that he doesn't exactly live in another city, going back to his old neighborhood still makes him feel uneasy, like he's still that 16 years old boy, hating himself more than he could ever hate anything else. He's not that person anymore.

Another thing on why he hates Ian for making him do this is because he knows there were rumors, during Terry's trial. (Don't think about that) (Don't think about that) Rumors of that ungrateful Milkovich boy, ratting out his own father. And then, while the trial was in full swing and Mickey had to tell every awful thing his father had ever done to him and his siblings to a bunch of strangers, there were different kind of rumors. About what kind of sick, evil things Terry Milkovich did to his children. (Most of them were true)

_Ever heard the story of the queer Milkovich boy?_

He flinches, as if the memories had come back to life and slapped him in the face. He's not supposed to think about that stuff. The file Terry Milkovich had been closed long ago, yet he keeps opening it without meaning to. But, if he's going to visit Ian's family, either they're going to be kind enough not to bring shit up in front of him, or they're going to bombard him with questions. He's not sure which is worse, because in the end they will still look at him all the same.

Mickey decides to go check the boys' rooms, while they're still at school, having nothing better to do. Karen is actually supposed to do that, but whatever, she'll be glad he helped.

 

–

 

“What's up, boss man?” Karen asks in greeting, apparently already finished with the girls' rooms. Checking those rooms usually is pretty easy, since most of these girls are sweethearts, or just smart enough not to leave shit in their room. Boys, however. Most of the boys here are dumb fucks in that department.

“Nothing, you find anything?”

“Hmmm,” she starts swaying her hips back and forth, like she normally does, “Jayden had a pair of scissors in her room.”

Mickey sighs. “You'll think she starts learning the rules sometime?” he asks, Karen handing him said scissors. They're not much, not anything big to worry about, but still, they're against the rules. He's gonna have to put them in his office, and she can come ask for them.

“Hey, did you tell her she couldn't have any sex stuff on the walls?”

He wrinkles his nose, confused. “I told her she couldn't hang up any dick pics, unless they were very scientific. Why?”

Karen laughs, motioning him towards Jayden's room. He gets it as soon as he steps inside. “Wow,” he says, and if he's honest with himself he kind of likes it. “She put up anatomy dick pics. I appreciate her effort to be as hardcore as possible, have to give her that.”

“Please,” Karen says, playfully nudging his shoulder with hers, “you're so digging those pics. If you could, you would hang them up in your office.”

“Well, that'd certainly be a nice way to greet new people.” He turns to her, outstretching his hand and saying, in the most monotone voice: “Hello, I'm Mickey Milkovich, gay as fuck and admirer of dicks in all sizes and colors. And I can assure you that I will take good care of your kid.”

Karen shoves him, but only lightly. They've kind of become friends over the years, and she even knows about him and Ian. “Eww, I don't need to know all the shit you and Gallagher get up to.”

“Don't worry,” he replies, grinning, “I take my studies _very_ seriously.”

She fakes vomiting noises. “Oh my god, you suck. Go do the shit you're paid to do.”

He's giving her a salute with his left hand, already on the way to his first room. He already knows it's Marcus' room because of the gold fish on his desk. “Hey there, buddy,” he greets the fish, waving his hand in front of the glass. He knows that Marcus loves fishes, if he gets out of this shit hole he'll hopefully start doing something with that, like working in an aquarium or something. But Mickey knows that he's been acting weird lately, snapping at him or the others for the smallest things, or getting in fights with other kids even though he's never been aggressive. Marcus' one of the sweet ones, has been staying here since he was 12. But maybe it's that. He's turning 18 soon, and then he'll have to leave all of this behind. It probably doesn't feel that fucking great.

Mickey starts going through drawers, carefully so that he doesn't fuck anything up. He doesn't want to be one of those social workers that destroy a kids' whole room trying to find something. All that does is make them feel like shit.

All the drawers, the closet, everything's fine, so he starts getting the sheets off the bed and flips the mattress, because people love to destroy the mattress and hide shit there. He did the same, back in the day.

It's not big, but it's there, the small hole in the mattress, obviously done by someone who wanted to hide something. Mickey curses, taking off one glove and then hoping to god it's not some weird shit like condoms or lube as he gets his hand through. His fingers come in touch with a small plastic bag, so he carefully gets it out and _holy shit._

Condoms would've been better.

 

–

 

He waits for the kids to get back from school before finding Ian and dragging him into an empty hall. “Hey, I need you to watch the kids for a moment,” he says, “I need to talk with Marcus for a second.” Going into the hall was a mistake, they're so close his breath keeps tickling Ian's chest.

Ian sighs with relief. “Just that?” He asks, taking a chance and letting his broad hands rest on Mickey's waist, and while Mickey knows he should be pushing him off, he leans into it. Ian sounds almost shy when he whispers: “And here I thought you were gonna bail.” They both know what he's talking about.

Mickey wants to tell him, wants to tell him that while yes, he's not exactly looking forward to it, he's gonna do it because Ian asked. Even if that means he's whipped as fuck. But the words just don't come out, they keep getting stuck in his throat from years and years of 'showing emotion makes you weak' rhetoric carved into his brain. _Don't let anyone know they mean something to you, because they will use it against you. You loved your dad, too, after all. Look where that got you._ He knows Ian's not like that, but it's hard to unlearn all that shit. So, instead he murmurs a “Shut up” and leaves it at that.

But Ian's apparently not satisfied with that. Wouldn't be Ian if he was. “No, really, I wouldn't blame you if you did. Gallagher crazy is a whole different kind of crazy.” There it is. Mickey has long since realized that Ian has this deep rooted fear that any boyfriend of his is gonna leave him once he meets the family, and he hates it. Mickey wants to punch every asshole that made him believe that.

He touches Ian's cheek, barely there. “Hey,” he warns, forcing him to look into Mickey's eyes. Then he kisses him, not particularly deep but still passionate enough to get the point across. _I'm not leaving._ Ian's lips are a taste he could never get tired of and he almost loses himself in them, but then he remembers that he has a point to make here, so he stops. Ian's panting into his mouth. “I happen to like Gallagher crazy,” he whispers into his mouth. _Yours._

Ian laughs, weak and unconvinced, but there. “Yeah, yeah.” He lets their foreheads touch and closes his eyes, exhaling like he's been holding his breath for a while now. “Why you wanna talk to Marcus, anyway?”

Mickey sighs, nuzzling his forehead against Ian's a little. “Found something fishy in his room.”

“Umm, yeah no shit, he owns a fish?”

He hits his shoulder. “I meant drugs, dumbass,” Mickey says, exaggerated. And then a little lower, so nobody can overhear them: “Found some weed under his bed.”

Ian looks confused, rubbing his shoulder. “You sure it was Marcus' room?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck,” he says, sliding his hands up and down Mickey's waist. It's comforting, so he doesn't tell him to stop. “But Marcus is normally such a nice kid. I don't think I've ever even seen him drink.” Ian studies his boyfriend's face, and then, as if he can read minds, he asks: “Think there's something else going on?”

“Dunno, that's what I wanna find out.” Mickey starts biting his lower lip nervously, already feeling the stress sinking in. “I still have the drugs, gonna flush them down the toilet after.”

Ian hums, riding up Mickey's shirt by his movements a little and taking full advantage of the exposed skin. Mickey almost doesn't want to get back to work, all he wants to do is drag Ian somewhere secluded and never leave. Shit. “Would be best,” Ian says, drumming his fingers along Mickey's skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “It's probably not even _good_ weed.”

“Don't you dare say that shit in front of the kids, I'll cut you,” he warns him, pecking Ian's lips one more time and then reluctantly untangling himself from his ginger idiot. “Go do your job, I'll do mine.”

Ian cheekily salutes him as he goes. “You got it, boss.”

 

–

 

Marcus is outside when he finds him, only looking up once when Mickey asks him if he can have a word. Marcus is generally not a very extrovert person, during his first weeks here he hardly spoke except to answer questions, preferring to lose himself in music and writing his own songs. Mickey's heard him rap before, he's pretty good.

He takes the pack of weed out of his pocket and lets it lie it between them, strategically not looking at him. He doesn't say a word, but he doesn't have to. “Dunno what that is,” Marcus says, shrugging, trying to not look like the boy that got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He's failing miserably.

“Please, I've been dealing drugs since I was 9, I know what weed looks like,” Mickey counters, still only looking straight ahead. It's quiet here, but outside these walls there is a whole other world, hectic and foreign to someone who's only ever known the system. Someone like Marcus. “And I know you do, too.” He almost adds _I've read your file_ , but restrains himself. He doesn't want Marcus to feel attacked, exposed, then this conversation is gonna go nowhere. The worst kind of attitude you can have around these kids is acting like you know everything about them and judging them for it, because then they'll just snap. “What's going on, Marcus?”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah?” Mickey finally does turn to look at him then, and even though Marcus is set to turn 18 in a few weeks, all he sees is a scared kid. A kid that got dealt a shitty hand and now thinks he needs to fuck up his life further. “'Cause last I checked, you don't do drugs. And you're sure as hell not dumb enough to leave them in your room, too. So, what's going on?” He waits a few minutes, but still nothing. Marcus won't even look at him, choosing instead to look at his shoulder. “Okay, then I'll tell you what's going on. You're scared. I know you are. You left those drugs in your room, didn't even touch them, hoping that I'd find them. And that you, what? Get to stay here for a little longer? That's not how it works, Marcus, you know that.”

“Hey, I'm not scared,” Marcus objects, raising his voice a little.

“'Course you are,” Mickey says, taking the plastic bag of weed and putting it back in his pocket, planning to flash it later. “We all are. I'm scared you'll do something stupid. You're scared of going outside these walls, of having to fend for yourself. And it's okay to be scared, okay? It is. And the best way to deal with these fears is to face them head on, and to punch the ever living shit out of them.” Mickey flinches. “No, wait, scratch that, _don't_ punch people.” Marcus finally looks up, laughing and shaking his head.

“Man, you're weird.”

“Years of taking care of a bunch of kids made me that way, trust me.” Marcus laughs again at that, and Mickey grins along. He likes making kids laugh. It's one of the reasons he wanted to be a social worker in the first place. “You know,” he starts, scratching his chin, “when I turned 18, I was scared, too. My sister was a year younger than me, so I had to leave her behind and start over. All on my own.”

“Yeah, how'd that go?” Marcus asks, intrigued.

Mickey laughs. “I managed, I guess.” Barely. He remembers college, having no fucking clue why he was there, why shit was so expensive, and how he was gonna pay for all of it. But that's life.

He's almost done before he realizes he has another speech to give. He hates giving the 'Don't do drugs, kids' speech, most likely because no one's gonna believe that shit from a guy with knuckle tattoos, but he can try. “Oh, another thing: don't ever do that again. Because when you get caught, and if you start there's no way you're not gonna get caught eventually, they won't look at you as a kid. They're gonna treat you like an adult, and while they're at it give you the hardest punishment they can.” Marcus opens his mouth to agree, or argue, but Mickey cuts him off. “No, listen. Jail isn't juvie, they're gonna eat you alive in there. And even once you're out, you're screwed. Believe me, I know.” He sighs, his right hand automatically going to his left wrist and scratching furiously. His clothes feel way too tight, closing in around his throat. “My dad, he … he got 10 years. And I don't want that for you.” (And Mickey put him in there) (Wait, shit, don't think about that) His fingers are furiously working on his wrist, scratching it raw and sensitive. Scratch.

“For real, your dad's in the can? For what?” Scratch.

Mickey shrugs, willing himself not to say it. _Drugs, mostly. Child abuse. Sexual assault. Some other shit he can't remember._ “Lots of stuff.”

Marcus hums, contemplating that answer. “He ever gonna get out?”

“No.” _Not if he's got anything to say 'bout it._

 

–

 

“Stop scratching.” They're inside Ian's shitty car, driving to what will probably turn out to be the most awkward dinner ever. Mickey's feeling strung up from his and Marcus' conversation as it is, but now he just feels ready to snap. And he's _not_ scratching, fuck Ian.

“I'm not,” he huffs.

Ian laughs, gesturing to Mickey's wrist. “You're doing it right now.” Mickey looks down, and almost as if he has no control over his hands anymore, he is scratching. He forces himself to stop, even though it's hard. One of these days his hands are gonna fall off or some shit. “You have nothing to be nervous about, I promise.”

Mickey crosses his arms over his chest, grumbling. “Except a bunch of judgmental Gallaghers.”

Ian sighs, taking one of Mickey's hands without looking up from the road and putting it up to his lips, kissing his knuckles. Mickey would complain about how cheesy this is if it wasn't helping. Ian starts grinning. “Don't worry. I'll defend you, my love.”

Mickey almost wants to take his hand back, but Ian's hold is stronger. “Oh, fuck you.”

“What is it, my love?” Ian asks innocently, cracking up almost immediately and finally releasing his hand.

“I fucking hate you.” Mickey grumbles.

“I know you do,” Ian says, grinning. He stops talking to focus more on the busy streets of Chicago, and the car once again gets engulfed in silence. But it's not an uneasy silence, it never is with Ian.

Mickey falls asleep halfway through, dreaming of nothing in particular. It's only once they've arrived and parked the car that Ian wakes him up. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” he says, unbuckling his seat belt and doing the same for Mickey in his still sleep drunken state. “We're there.”

Mickey yawns, and finally looks ahead of them and wow. “This place looks like shit,” he says out loud before stopping himself, but Ian's not offended, he only snorts, in a sort of 'fair enough' way. “Don't get why your sister won't just move out of this shit hole.”

“Well, the place holds a certain sentimental value to us,” Ian says, and Mickey wonders what it would feel like to have that. Sentimental value. He's always been moving around, and before that the Milkovich house was the earth equivalent of hell to him, so no. He doesn't get it. “Besides, Liam's still in school, so Fiona's not the only one still living in there.” Ahhh, Liam. The youngest, he already knows that.

Mickey's reluctance to get outside doesn't go unnoticed by Ian. “Come on, don't be nervous,” he says, smiling at him encouragingly.

“I'm not nervous,” Mickey grumbles, and it's in that moment that the Gallagher door opens and a slim brunette woman goes outside, waving at them. “Is that your sister? Shit.”

Ian laughs, getting out of the car and then waiting for Mickey to intertwine their hands together. Mickey feels nervous, given that they're in the south side and all, but he tries not to focus on that. “Here we go,” Ian says, leading his boyfriend to the house, and his death, most likely.

 


	2. II.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for implied/referenced rape (3x06), self injury, panic attacks. Just, beware of the warnings, if this is triggering to you in any way, you might not want to read this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the sweet comments and stuff, I really appreciate it. And yes, I did have a great time during Pride, even though the weather wasn't the greatest. Met lots of amazing new people, as well. But I needed a day after that, to just chill and not write anything, because I was realy, really exhausted.

The introductions go by relatively okay. Mickey's not sure how, but most of these people are pretty easy to talk to. He likes Debbie's enthusiasm whenever she talks about college, he's sort of okay with Carl asking him if he'd ever killed anybody (he hasn't). Fiona obviously knows some shit about him by the sad look she gives him when Ian introduces him as Mickey Milkovich, and Lip has been biting his tongue all evening. Liam doesn't really seem like a big talker. The only person he wants to punch is Lip, but Ian already warned him about his older brother being a major asshole. It's not the worst thing in the world, spending an evening with these people, Mickey realizes. Ian hasn't moved from his side since they got inside.

Of course, that shit changes once Lip actually opens his mouth. “So,” he begins, and Mickey's already fighting the urge to punch him, “Milkovich, huh?”

“Jep,” he answers, feeling Ian next to him intertwining their fingers together and squeezing. It helps.

Lip smirks. “Think I might've bought weed from one of your brothers once.”

Mickey clenches his fist, still intertwined with Ian's, and fights the urge to run. Ian doesn't know what went down with his brothers, but he's not dumb enough to ask about it. He knows Mickey way too well for that shit, knows that he would just bolt. Lip apparently doesn't. “Good for you,” Mickey manages to spit out, and the fucker opens his mouth once more, probably wanting to add another bullshit sentence that is probably meant to show Ian he deserves more, when all of them stop at the sound of the birthday girl, Fiona, cussing someone out in the kitchen.

“Are you fucking serious, Kev?” she screams, and Ian and Lip simultaneously rush to the kitchen to see what's wrong. “You own a fucking bar and you forgot to bring the booze? How did you even _forget_ , you're surrounded by alcohol?”

Mickey has no fucking idea who this Kev person is, and even after an involuntarily brain storming where he thought of any person in his childhood that might've had that name, he comes up with nothing. He sounds like a dick, though. Who forgets the booze?

“Listen, Fi, it's fine. We'll just go buy some now,” Ian's voice comes through, always the comforter, and Mickey imagines for a moment how it must've been like for him, to have to be his big sister's rock, kind of overlooked in a sense. He remembers something Ian once said, a few weeks ago, when they talked about it. _'Like being an outsider in a family of outsiders.'_

“I'll go,” Mickey says, only realizing after that buying booze would require him to go walk in his old neighborhood. Oh well, while he's here. Everyone's looking at him questionably, like they're trying to guess his agenda or some shit. When in reality, all he wants to do is escape this house for a second and maybe have a smoke.

Ian looks at him, confused. “I mean, if … if you want to.”

Mickey waves him off. “Yeah, yeah, 's fine, I'll just head to one of the shitty super markets around here and buy the cheapest stuff there.”

“Actually,” Debbie chimes in, “the super markets aren't _as_ shitty as they were when you used to live here. Just, you know, a heads up.”

“Thank god for gentrification,” Lip murmurs, and even that pisses Mickey off. He fucking needs to get out of here.

He's almost out the door, grabbing his jacket as he goes, when Ian stops him with a hand on his shoulder. He looks worried, like Mickey's about to run. He isn't. “Take Liam with you,” he says, pressing down on his shoulder a little. Liam doesn't even object, he just mutely stands up from his position on the couch and makes his way over. Kid hasn't said a word besides 'Hey' all evening. “Be safe.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, shrugging Ian's hold off. “We'll be fine, we're just going to the fucking super market not to war.”

Ian grins, but it's fake. “You never know in this neighborhood.” And then, completely oblivious to all of the Gallaghers staring at them, Ian kisses him, soft and fleeting. _Don't leave me._

“Wait up for us with dinner, I'm fucking starving.” _I won't._

 

–

 

“You actually know where we're going?” Mickey asks after a minute, because he knows shit about the south side of now, mindlessly going along to wherever Liam is taking him. “Please tell me you know where we're going.”

“Maybe you shouldn't trust a kid to lead you around,” Liam says, kicking a beer can out of the way. He's not sure why, but Mickey has the distinct feeling he's not the only one that wanted to escape some family time. He has to remind himself that this isn't his job though, and Liam's not one of his kids.

“Hey, the south side I grew up in and the south side now are two different things.”

“Yeah, why'd you leave again?” Liam asks, completely oblivious. He must've been, what? 3 or 4 when the trial started, and his siblings apparently haven't informed him of the Milkovich history. Thank fuck.

Still, talking about it, in such close proximity to his former home, makes him nervous. “Dad got sent to jail. For a long time.”

“Sweet, you got lucky, then,” he says, grinning at Mickey, all innocence. Mickey quite likes this kid, he reminds him of Marcus a little. The quiet ones.

Mickey grimaces. “Not really.” They spend the next few minutes of walk in silence, with Mickey playing with the cash in his pocket, creating a weird sort of soundtrack of coins, looking at his surroundings, comparing _this_ south side to the one he grew up in. Sure, Gentrification and all, but it's not really that different. Mickey finds himself recognizing corners where he used to deal drugs, just barely a teenager and already doing his father's bidding. Corners where he used to sleep sometimes, next to trash cans, when his father got particularly angry. Remembers cowering down, shielded by trash cans, remembers shaking so hard he felt like all of Chicago could hear his teeth rattling. Remembers going to school the next day smelling like a sewer, and everyone gossiping about 'the dirty Milkovich boy'. (Don't.) (Don't think about that.)

Liam stopping thankfully sends him out of his short trip to memory lane. They're standing outside one of these fancy super markets, looking out of place in a place like theirs. They probably sell everything gluten free or some shit. “Ok,” Liam says, sounding tired and exhausted and way too much like an adult for a 14 years old. “You buy the alcohol, I go to the comics section.”

“You like comics?” Mickey asks, being a little intimidated by the thing, to be honest. He's never been in such a fancy super market before, the prices are probably higher than his month's rent.

Liam gives him a 'duh' look. “I'm 14. What 14 years old boy _doesn't_ like comics?”

Mickey barely has time to mutter a “true” before Liam's off, probably freeing his inner nerd or something. Mickey sighs. He has booze to buy.

 

–

 

Saying Mickey is lost would be an understatement. Saying Mickey has no fucking clue if he's still in America or if he somehow got transported to fucking Narnia or some shit would describe the situation better, to be honest. And here he was, _so_ sure that the sign with 'Alcohol' on it would actually lead him to the alcohol. Hah, was he fucking wrong. He's currently stuck somewhere between the female hygiene section and the shampoos, cursing under his breath. This is why he normally forces Ian along with him.

He's nervously scratching his wrist, looking around for someone who looks like they work here. He's not sure why, but going to such a fancy super market makes him feel anxious, like he's still that kid in dirty hand-me-downs, stealing food under his too long coat. He hasn't stolen something in so long, but it still feels like he doesn't belong. 'S probably in his DNA. _If you see something small, easily covered, go for it. Don't act suspicious. If you're still somehow caught, run._

There's a girl with his back to him, seemingly stacking up the tampons section. He can't quite make out her face, but he already knows this shit's going to be awkward. Hopefully she doesn't think he's a creep or something, watching her stack up tampons and getting off on that shit. “Umm, excuse me?” He's standing behind her, scratching his arm furiously, hopefully he doesn't have to tap her shoulder or some other awkward shit like -

Mickey's not sure how he remembers her, her hair's different, curly and darker than before, and she's not wearing the purple dress, but he does. He remembers her. And he wants to vomit.

_She's gonna fuck the faggot outta ya, kid._

She remembers him, too, dropping a bunch of tampons on the floor. “You,” she says, in a thick Russian accent. Mickey's taken aback a little. He's not sure how he imagined her voice to sound, all he remembers are the fake moans she made above him. The heavy weight on his lap. 10 years of nightmares, and he didn't even hear her voice. Maybe he thought she'd have some deep, cruel voice, but she doesn't. She almost sounds … sad.

Swallowing back bile, he asks: “What are you doing here?” Mickey's going for angry, but the crack in his voice gives him away. His fists are clenched so hard he can't feel them anymore.

_No son of mine is gonna be a goddamn AIDS monkey._

“I … work here?” she says, unsure, almost like a question. She's probably weighing her chances of running, of turning around and fleeing. He can sort of understand her, all he wants to do is run, too.

He's not sure how he manages to utter even more words, but they're coming out of his mouth without his permission. His voice is cruel, not his. “You fucking changed your line of work, huh? Good for you.”

She flinches, and in this state Mickey almost feels sorry for her, but only almost. All he can think about is her heavy weight on his lap. Nails holding onto his shoulders for leverage. His father's gun hitting him. Blood in his mouth.

“Why didn't you come to the trial?” The words are out before he can stop them but damn it, he needs to know. He needs to face the woman he's been having nightmares about for 10 years.

“Mickey?” A hand's touching his arm, and he flinches away so violently he almost crashes into an aisle of shampoos. “You got the stuff yet?” It's Liam, but Mickey can't see him, can't see anything but his father's face, hard and grinning when he ordered … when he …

“Dude, you're bleeding,” Liam says, shocked, pointing to Mickey's left wrist and oh, yeah. There's a bleeding scratch wound on his skin, it's not much but it's been bleeding inside his closed fist and onto the ground. A trail of blood. There's blood on the fingers of his right hand as well, and Mickey peculiarly wonders why he didn't even feel it. “You okay?” Liam asks, and the tone in which he says it, that careful worried one, no pity, reminds him so much of Ian that it snaps him out of it. Ian. This is Ian's brother. He can't be having a panic attack in front of Ian's brother.

“You buy it, I'll wait outside.”

“Wait, what? Dude, I'm 14, I can't buy alcohol!” Mickey sighs, looking left and right, ready to just take off and run. Fuck Liam. Fuck this whole trip.

He's almost on his way to sweet freedom when the girl says: “I buy it.” Mickey's swallowing hard, fighting down the vomit and the oncoming panic attack, willing himself not to open his mouth and snap at her again. Liam's looking at him now, obviously concerned and wondering who this woman is, why she's suddenly volunteering to buy a 14 years old alcohol. All Mickey does is nod. _It's okay._

“Okay, then … if you, if you want that,” Liam mutters, unsure. Mickey forces himself to smile at the kid, but it comes out as grimace, probably. He hears the girl ( _woman,_ she's probably only a few years older than him) saying to Liam, something about going to the alcohol section, so Mickey runs out of the super market as fast as he can. Leaving a trail of bloody breadcrumbs behind.

It takes him only a few minutes before he's out of there, breathing heavy and unsteadily. He takes shelter behind a trash can, hands on his knees and heaving, and then throws up.

 

–

 

Liam's quiet on their way home, not saying a word as he holds the bag in one hand. Mickey's glad. He's not sure he could stomach conversation at the moment, even just putting one foot in front of the other seems like way too much work at the moment. He feels raw and vulnerable, and he hates it. He hates feeling the way he did back then, naked except for his boxers.

Mickey spent the few minutes waiting for Liam next to that trash can, supporting himself on the dirty wall and keeping his head down. Throwing up, occasionally. Remembers thinking _'You're safe, it's over'_ over and over in his head until he started saying the words out loud, in a hushed whisper next to a trash can. He remembers looking inside his pocket, feeling the cash in there and feeling incredibly guilty of leaving Liam there, with no cash to even buy the booze. He almost thought of going back inside again and giving it to him, but even the idea of that made him feel dizzy and like he was gonna vomit again, so he stayed where he was and waited. He's not sure how Liam ended up getting it with no money, but he doesn't care enough to ask about it.

The Gallaghers are already seated at the dinner table when they come in, obviously waiting for them. Mickey feels self conscious all of a sudden, and he really, really just wants a shower.

“Hey, guys,” Ian says, standing up from the table and looking at Mickey, looking at the dried blood on his wrist. His eyebrows are drawn in together a little, and he looks like all he wants do to is run to Mickey, but he's refraining himself. “What took you so long?” _Are you okay?_

Mickey shakes his head, a silent answer, and starts going up the stairs to what he guesses is the boy's room just by the stench of sweat in it. There's 4 beds in it, but only one of them has army posters on the walls, so he sits down on that one.

It doesn't take long for Ian to find him, like Mickey guessed he would. He's breathing heavy, obviously having run up the steps, the dork. “Mickey, what's wrong? What happened?” he asks, crouching down next to him and taking his face in his hands. His expression is so honest and worrying, Mickey almost feels like telling him, but then he remembers the looks of pity the social workers gave him, the _“I'm so sorry”'_ s, and he can't get that from Ian. He can't. So he stays silent, shaking his head.

His breathing starts getting unsteadier, faster, and Ian notices, too. “Okay, Mickey, look at me,” he says, all professional, but the crack in his voice gives him away. “I need you to breathe with me, okay? Can you do that for me?” Mickey starts shaking his head furiously, trying to rush air into his lungs but failing. “Hey, hey, it's okay, you can do this. I know you can. Just breathe. In, out.” Ian takes one of Mickey's hands, the one with blood still under his nails, and puts it on his chest, right where his heart is beating steadily. Feeling Ian's chest move under his fingers. “In, out.”

Mickey does as he's told, breathing in through his nose and pushing the air out of his mouth. In, out.

_You're safe, he's in jail._ In.  _He can't hurt you any more._ Out. In. Out.

Mickey's not sure how Ian does it, but after a while of them just breathing, he's almost starting to feel alright again. He lifts his hand away from Ian's chest and gently touches their foreheads together, sighing. Ian's breath is warm against his face. “Thank you,” he whispers into the space between them, voice sounding wrecked but still steady.

Ian sighs, pulling back a little and looking into Mickey's eyes. “Don't thank me,” he says, smiling. “You taught me, remember?”

Mickey can't help but smile. “I did.”

 

–

 

Dinner after that is tense, to say the least. He's not sure if any of the Gallaghers heard his little panic attack, but they didn't have to. Mickey knows how this works, he's now forever branded 'Ian's unstable boyfriend'. If it weren't for the warm hand in his lap, touching his thigh, he's sure he would've run. Ian informed him earlier that all he really missed was an awkward speech from Lip about Fiona taking care of them all, and he's pretty fucking happy he missed that. He's not sure he could've shut his mouth long enough and  _not_ take the piss.

The food itself isn't that bad, way better than the stuff he and Ian are used to. Mickey can eat about anything, though, but even he has to admit that this lasagna is pretty awesome, and he tells Fiona that. All she does is smile at him, but not in a fake way. Maybe the Gallaghers aren't  _that_ bad. Except for Lip, fuck that guy.

He almost loses himself in the mindless banter of the Gallagher clan, but of course Lip has to ruin that the second he opens his mouth again. “So, Mickey,” he says, leaning back a little, and Mickey wants to punch him  _so fucking bad_ , “any of the rumors true?”

Everyone on the table's suddenly quiet, looking at the both of them curiously. Mickey can see Fiona giving Lip 'I will kill you' stares from the corner of his vision. Ian's squeezing Mickey's thigh possessively, but not yet stepping in. All of them know what  _rumors_ Lip is talking about. “Depends which,” Mickey replies coldly, the hand on his thigh steadying him. “You mean the one how I'm a fag, or the one where I put my own dad in jail?” He swears, he could hear a needle falling on the floor with how quiet it is. “'Cause yeah, both are true.”

Lip opens his mouth to speak again, but Ian beats him to it, raising his voice a little. “We didn't come here to be interrogated,  _Phillip_ ,” he says in a snapping tone, leaving no room for interpretation. His hand is moving up and down Mickey's thigh in a soothing manner, but all Mickey can think about is the fact that he said 'we', no matter how cheesy that sounds. Even just that single word fills him with inexplicable joy, and makes him feel all warm and fuzzy. Mickey fucking feels like one of those straight girls in soap operas, and he wants to vomit.

Fiona takes control of the situation, standing up abruptly and clapping her hands. “Okay, guys, all of you finished yet? Yeah? Okay, how about I go clean up while you make yourselves comfortable in the living room.”

Mickey sighs in relief, already standing up and making his way to the living room, and away from judgmental looks. He's making his way toward where the alcohol is when Ian grabs his hand and turns him around. They're standing so close together that only Mickey can hear it when Ian whispers “Sorry about my brother” into the space between them.

Mickey snorts, but doesn't move away, instead settling on squeezing Ian's hand reassuringly. “Don't be,” he says, sighing. “If I had to apologize every time one of my bother's did some stupid shit I'd be here all afternoon.”

Ian smiles, rubbing his thumb over his palm. “You sure you okay? We can leave if you want.”

He's sure they could. He could tell Ian right now and they would leave in a second, no questions asked. But he kind of wants to stay. He wants to show Ian that he's not gonna leave, that he can handle a little Gallagher crazy. “Don't worry, I'm fine.” The lie goes easily off his tongue, he's been training himself to say it for so long he's starting to think it might even be true. Fake it till you make it.

Ian sighs and smiles, but it's a sad one. “No, you're not,” he says, letting go of Mickey's hand. “But you don't wanna talk about it, 's okay. Just ...” He starts struggling for words, looking at his face, at the scar on his temple, right next to his hairline, been there for 10 years now, and starts massaging it gently. Mickey sighs and closes his eyes. “You have to let me inside that big brain of yours some time, otherwise I'm just gonna go fucking nuts.”

“My brain ain't that interesting, Gallagher,” Mickey mumbles, and if he were a cat he'd fucking purr.

“It is to me,” Ian whispers, and pecks Mickey on the lips, just once, but that's enough. He doesn't even care that Ian's siblings are there, Carl doing fake vomit noises behind them.

“Eww, gross,” he says, and you'd think this dude is still a teenager and not in college, “get a room!”

Mickey laughs. “We do, actually. But  _someone_ had to drag me out here.” He gives Ian a fake glare, but all he does is laugh, go up to Carl and ruffle his hair. He comes back a little later with a beer in his hand, handing it to Mickey without even asking.

“Awww, you know each other so well,” a black woman (Veronica ???) coos, sighing dramatically. It's just teasing, but it still makes Mickey feel a little uneasy, a little cautious. He's never been good at differentiating teasing banter and actual insults, but Ian doesn't seem offended, so he isn't either.

Lip snickers. “Romance isn't dead, after all.”

Mickey flashes him the brightest, most fake smile he can muster. “Go eat a dick,  _Phillip._ ”

 

–

 

Ian was right, Gallaghers  _do_ party hard. It's the last conscious thought he has at the moment, almost 3 am and being drunk as fuck. He thinks he might've ended up doing shots with the little redheaded girl, Debbie? Yeah.

Even Ian ended up joining them in their wild drinking, even though Mickey scowled at him, “ _You can't drink on your meds, Ian”_ , but look at what good that did. Ian's been a lightweight ever since starting on the meds, and Mickey already knows he's gonna have to play hungover nurse tomorrow morning. He can't bring himself to care.

Ian and him are the only ones up this late, the others have already either gone to bed or passed out somewhere, probably. Mickey's not as drunk as he was an hour ago, but he can still feel the nice buzz of alcohol in his system. Calms him down, and he needed some calming down after the shitty day he's had.

He's currently sitting own the couch, just chilling, when Ian speaks up from his position on the floor. The music's still on, they haven't bothered to turn it down, too much effort. “Hey, Mick?” he slurs, drunkenly trying to stand up and succeeding after a few failed attempts.

“Yeah?”

Suddenly Ian's standing in front of him, albeit a little unsteadily, holding out his hand. “Dance with me.”

Mickey snorts. “Fuck off.”

Ian pouts, actually fucking pouts, putting his chin out a little and waving his hand in the air a little more aggressively. “Miiiick, please.” Should've known this shit would happen. Ian's a needy drunk. But so is Mickey, so fuck it.

“What-the-fuck-ever,” he says, standing up abruptly and almost tripping. Ian holds him steady by the waist, grinning. “You're lucky you're fucking hot.”

“Not so bad yourself,” Ian slurs, but it's softer, and the grip he has on Mickey's waist can be called possessive at best. Mickey doesn't really know the song that's playing, it's slow and kind of cheesy, but he doesn't give a shit. Not like there's anyone to witness this moment, anyone except Ian. And if he tells _anyone_ about this shit, he's gonna cut his dick off, so Mickey thinks he's safe.

“Can't dance,” he murmurs against Ian's shoulder, almost embarrassed, but still going along. If he squints really, really hard, this kinda counts as weird hugging. And it feels good, so fuck it.

“'S easy,” Ian says, grinning, taking Mickey's left hand. “Like this.” He starts swinging them along the room like they're in a fucking Disney movie. Mickey would be insulted about being the girl in this dance situation if he were sober, but right now he's just laughing his ass off at Ian's dorkiness.

“Holy shit,” he breathes out, still laughing. “You're so dumb. I hate you.”

Ian ignores him, just keeps swinging them wherever the fuck he wants them to go, still laughing. Both of them stop laughing though, when Ian trips on a beer bottle on the table and they crush down. Ian's considerate enough to weaken the blow for Mickey, but it's not doing much.

“ _Ouch_ , motherfucker!” He's not totally angry, though, he's still grinning, out of breath, and so is Ian. Their faces are mere inches apart, breathing into each other's faces. Neither of them is willing to move.

“Mick?” Ian asks after a while, voice drunkenly serious.

“Hmm?”

“I like being on top of you.”

Mickey snorts. “No shit, I kind of figured.” Ian grins along, with his hands still on Mickey's waist, warm even through the fabric of his shirt. Mickey takes time to really look at Ian's face then, to look at all the faint freckles splattered everywhere, weakened by sunless winter, but still there. His pink lips. His strong jaw. He's kind of beautiful.

Then he thinks of today, thinks of strong arms around him, calming him down from a panic attack. Thinks of Ian just helping him, just  _being there_ , without asking for anything in return. Thinks of being stood up for, of getting a beer without asking, of 'no questions asked'. He's never had that, with anyone. He's never been important enough for someone for that and. Holy fucking shit. He's in love with this redheaded idiot.

“Ian?”

“Hmmm?” Ian's doing something with Mickey's neck, nuzzling and licking and sucking, but in a non-sexual way. Feels nice.

“Move in with me.” The words are out before he can stop them, but to be honest, he doesn't want to stop them. He likes this. Likes Ian. Ian's one of the only people he can trust, him and Mandy. Mickey doesn't want this to stop, and he's tired of denying things to himself that make him happy, just because his dad taught him he wasn't allowed to want to be. Fuck his dad.

Ian's lifting his head in record time, giving Mickey kind of whiplash, but not minding either. The look he's giving him is unreadable, which freaks Mickey out a little. Hell, what if he doesn't want to? What if he doesn't want to move in with a mess like Mickey, someone who can't even meet the family without having a panic attack? (Damaged goods.)

Ian's smiling softly, stroking Mickey's cheek with his thumb. “No.” Mickey would be lying if he said that single word didn't just crush his heart, as cheesy as that sounds. He's preparing himself to stand up and go upstairs, pack his bags and leave, but Ian still hasn't moved. He's still smiling at him, still stroking his cheek. “You're moving into my place, yours is too small.”

 

–

 

He wakes up that night with Ian's strong arm wrapped around his waist, squished together in a single bed that they were able to drag themselves to after Mickey had to convince Ian  _not_ to fuck on the carpet. ( _“We're not fucking in a house full of your siblings, Ian.” “Oh come on, 's not like they haven't seen worse.”_ ) He can't believe Ian survived 18 years in this shitty bed, it can't even contain one of them, let alone 2.

It's cold in the room, but Mickey is sweating nonetheless, his shirt plastered on his skin uncomfortably. He's had a nightmare again, about that day, which isn't something relatively new. Even after years, he still has them every now and then. This time, though, the roles were reversed. This time it was Mickey looking down at the bleeding woman, half naked and panting in pain. There was a wound on her forehead, with blood covering half of her face, but he could still see her. Her eyes didn't move, they looked dead.

_Fuck her till she likes it, son._

He woke up then, panting heavily. Ian's weight next to him calming him down. It's not enough, though, not this time, so he gets out of bed as silently as possible. Breaking Ian's iron grip on him is a little hard, but once he manages that all Ian does is mumble something in his sleep and push his head into Mickey's side of the pillow. Dork.

After he's convinced Ian won't wake up without him there, he makes his way down the stairs, silently praying they have a working coffee machine. It's 8 am, way too early for him to wake up at his day off, but going back to sleep isn't an option. So he sucks it up.

He's surprised to find he's not the only one awake when he enters the kitchen, finding Fiona already seated on the table, holding a steaming coffee mug in her hands. The sight of it makes Mickey's mouth water. “Couldn't sleep either, huh?” He shakes his head and she hums, pointing towards the coffee maker. “Made coffee, if you want some.”

Mickey's whole body sags in relief. Coffee is exactly what he needs right now. He doesn't bother to thank her, knows she won't be disappointed if he doesn't, just makes himself a mug and sits down opposite her. She smiles at him, slowly sipping from her coffee. “I'm sorry about what Lip said.”

“He's an ass.”

Her smile turns into a grin. “Genetics, I guess.” It slowly slips from her face, though, and Mickey can clearly see the shadow under her eyes. She looks older, way too old for someone her age. Guess that's what taking care of 5 kids will do to you. He knows the feeling. “You know,” she starts, coughing, “back when I was in high school, and still went to school, I remember having some classes with your brother. What was it, Iggy?” Mickey's nod is barely there, his body wound up tight, like it always gets at the mere mention of his brothers. “Yeah, Iggy. Wasn't really the _worst_ guy there was in high school, I mean it was high school. He was high sometimes, that's it. But I remember all of the girls and boys hating him, wanting nothing to do with him, and I was one of them. I saw his dirty clothes, his greasy hair, and I instantly didn't like him. Just thought, well, if he's this dirty then that's his own damn fault, you know?”

“Is that story supposed to make me like you, or what?” Mickey asks, defensive. He knows that story already, had to live through it.

“Just shut up for a second, will ya?” Fiona asks, and he sighs, leaning back against his chair. “Anyway, what I meant was that I thought he was responsible for his dirty clothes. And if he got underestimated by the teachers for being a Milkovich, then well, he should've learned harder, tried more. Kind of figures that I should've known, you know? Here I was, daughter of Frank Gallagher, alcoholic and deadbeat dad, and I was judging him for _his_ family? Looked at the dirt on his face and scowled, instead of realizing what was actually going on.”

He hates himself for sounding so weak when he says: “What's your point?”

Fiona sighs. “My point is that I judged you. I judged your whole family and I realized way too late, when they'd already put you in the system, that I was wrong. And I'm sorry. I really am.”

Mickey's taken aback, the last thing he expected from this was an apology. He's not sure if someone's ever apologized to him for that, for misjudging him. He's not quite sure what he's supposed to do, and he tells her that.

All Fiona does is smile. “You don't need to do anything about it, I just wanted you to know. How's your brother, by the way?”

Mickey shakes his head, wanting to get out of this conversation right fucking now. “I don't have contact with any of my brothers.” _They hate me._ _Can't exactly blame them._

Fiona hums, and contemplates that. “That's a shame,” is all she says. “Look, we Gallaghers can be quite hypocritical. We like to hold up people to high expectations, and when they fail, and they fail eventually, we blame it all on them. But whenever we fuck up, we like to make up excuses for our own bullshit.”

“Man, why are you telling me this?” Mickey asks, grinning at her and sipping his coffee. “I'm dating your brother, remember? You just really want me to dump him, don't you?”

Fiona turns serious. “If you dump him, I will hurt you. And trust me, I'm good at hurting people.”

Mickey shivers. He has no doubt about that. “I won't.”

“Good.” They fall back into silence after that, with both of them sipping their coffee. The more he thinks about it, though, the more guilty he feels for the way he acted yesterday. He knows it was a panic reaction, with him not thinking and all, but he knows the woman wasn't at fault. _Knows_ she couldn't have done anything, she wasn't the one with the gun in her hands. Fuck, she's just another person his father fucked up, and he snapped at her like it was her fault. And he doesn't even know her name.

He sighs, slumping into his seat. “Shit, I fucked up.”

All Fiona does is raise an eyebrow while continuing to sip her coffee, humming a little. It's only when she puts her mug down that she responds, shrugging a little and saying, in the most monotone voice: “So fix it.”

“It's not that simple,” he states, already on the defense.

Fiona smiles. “No,” she says, leaving no room for argument, “it _is_ that simple, we just like to complicate the shit out of it so we don't have to stand up to our own mistakes. Trust me, I know.”

She's right, he knows he's right. So instead of putting up a fight that will lead nowhere, he swears under his breath and gets up, shrugging his sweat soaked t-shirt off as he goes. He goes back to the duffel bag he bought with him, rummages around it until he finds a pair of suitable jeans and a black shirt with some weird band logo on it. He's halfway out the door, grabbing his jacket, when Fiona calls after him: “Wait, where you going?”

“Fixing shit,” is all he says as he closes the door, making his way towards the super market.

 

–

 

The more time he has to think about this, the more dumb he really feels. How's he even supposed to find her? He doesn't even know her fucking name, and he's pretty sure she's gonna call security if she sees him, he can't fucking blame her. Fuck, he's so stupid. Fuck Fiona and her motivational 'shit's not complicated' speech.

It goes on like that for most of the walk there, it's only once he's outside the super market does he calm down enough to realize that yes, he needs to do this. Mickey's not sure how he's supposed to find her, though, he doesn't even know if she even works this early. So he starts walking around aisles, looking at every brunette haired woman currently up at the ass crack of dawn. There aren't many.

Mickey's not sure how long it takes, but he eventually finds her, stocking up an aisle of cereals that would probably make his teeth rot out if he ate them. Her back's turned to him, and he takes a moment to just breathe. In, out. Like Ian told him to yesterday. In. _She's not him, she's not him, she's not him, she's not him, she's not him._ Out.

Okay, he can do this shit. At least, he hopes so. “Uhh, hey?” Mickey hates how it sounds like a question, how his voice is barely above a murmur. She hears him regardless, flinching so violently she almost topples over, and turns to glare at him.

“We have security,” is all she says, eying him warily. Kind of makes him feel bad, that she's afraid of him. Can't exactly blame her, though.

“I'm not, shit, I'm not here to hurt you.” She crunches up her nose disapprovingly at the swear word, as if she hasn't heard or seen far worse than that. “Look, I'm sorry for snapping at you yesterday, I was just … surprised?”

She nods. “So was I.” She turns her back on him again, and he realizes that this is it. He apologized. Mickey doesn't actually owe this woman anything, so it's pretty fucking surprising when he says, in a rush: “Look, you wanna maybe go drink a coffee with me? My treat.”

He's even more surprised when she looks him up and down, furrows her eyebrows, and says “ten minutes” in a thick Russian accent.

 

–

 

So, this is awkward. After realizing that she actually _was_ serious about those ten minutes, and that she fully intends on buying as much as possible (she's already had 2 full slices of cake, and she's ordering another) just to piss him off, he's not sure where they should start. They've been sitting in the small café next to the super market for what feels like centuries, without either of them saying a word except to order stuff. They're the only ones there.

“So ...” is what he decides to start with, not really sure how to end that, letting the word hang in the air.

She looks up momentarily from stuffing cake in her mouth. “I'm sorry,” is what she says, and it comes out more like a question, like a _'is this why you're doing this, then?'._

Mickey shakes his head. “Don't,” he says, sipping from his coffee. “I don't need your apology. That's not why I'm here.”  
“Why are you here then?” is what she counters with, and honestly he has no fucking clue. Mickey doesn't know what the fuck he's doing either, but that's life, he guesses.

He clears his throat. “Umm, so, you like working at the super market?”

She gives him a _'are you fucking serious'_ look. “I stack up tampons and deal with asshole costumers.” He nods. Fair enough. “But is better than hooking. Had to find a real job, after becoming legal.”

It's the way she says it, with so much pride in her voice. “Really, you are? That's fucking awesome.” His voice is sincere, he means it. And then he realizes something. “Wait, what's your name?”

“Svetlana.”

_Ride him till he likes it, suka._

He shakes the memory off, swallowing down the knot in his throat. Not the time. “Mickey.” She smiles at him, small and cautious, but it's enough. “So, who's the guy you had to get married to to stay here?”

Svetlana's smile widens, and he can tell already this wasn't a marriage of convenience. “Her name is Nika.”

His eyebrows jump to his hairline. Who would've thought, huh? “Jesus, that's … cool, I guess.”

“ _Cool_?” she says, mockingly.

He laughs. “Fuck, I don't know what to say. I don't even know why I'm doing this, I just … I guess I just wanted to know your name. I spent 10 years of my life hating you, and I didn't even know your name, fuck.” She flinches, and she opens her mouth as if to apologize again, but he stops her. “No, look. You know what my dad was good at? Brainwashing us into hating people. He made us hate our mom for leaving, for overdosing, even though he was the one that got her hooked in the first place. Made us hate the government, the police, convinced us that these people could never help us, that no one gave a shit about street rats like us, so we had to fend for ourselves.” He blinks, forcing himself not to cry. “Made us hate gays, made me hate myself. And then, he made me hate you. He used you to … fuck, to …” He can't even say the word. “To do what he did. And for years I blamed you for it, even though you weren't the one holding the gun to my head. You weren't the one pistol whipping me, beating me. But I guess it's easier to blame the hooker than to realize that your own dad ...” He breaks off, not wanting to say it. _That your own dad hates you. That your own dad raped you._

“So what? You want to apologize?” She asks, baffled.

“Kind of, yeah. I'm sorry. And I … don't blame you for not testifying. And thanks for, you know, doing what you did yesterday. For paying for it.” He rubs at his eyes furiously, fucking traitors, giving him away. “Shit, I thought I was over it. But I'm not. I'm really fucking not.”

“Me neither,” she says, smiling sadly. It's kind of sad, he thinks, in another life they'd probably turned out to be friends. He still kind of likes her, even if it's weird. Another person his dad fucked up.

Conversation after that is pretty light, she talks about her apartment and her wife while stuffing pie in her face, and he mentions his job every now and then. It's surprisingly easy, talking with this woman that was there during the worst day of his life, watching her eat pie and complain about her costumers. He still feels uneasy by her presence, but he doesn't feel quite as panicked as he used to.

They don't hug when they part, but they do shake hands, if only briefly. Touching already feels like a huge achievement, and before he goes he contemplates giving her his number, but decides against it. He's not ready for that yet. Svetlana looks at him and smiles, a real smile, before saying, in her thick accent that doesn't seem to have watered down even the slightest in ten years: “You're a good man. Better than your father.”

It's dumb, he knows, but the compliment leaves him speechless and fighting back tears. Can't even open his mouth long enough to say 'Thank you', but she doesn't need to hear it. Mickey leaves quickly after that, paying for the ten thousand slices of cake she got and his coffee, and then makes his way home. Thinks of doing a little detour and taking a visit to his old house, but he decides against it. Another time.

Ian's awake once he makes his way home, stuffing his face with pancakes and not even having the hint of a hangover. Must be those Gallagher genes. Mickey's so relieved to see him he doesn't even care about the other people in the room when he makes his way over to his syrup covered idiot and kisses him, hard, on the lips. Ian gasps, surprised, and Mickey takes full advantage of that, sneaking his tongue inside his mouth and tasting sugar overload.

“Whoa,” Ian says after they part, with his mouth full of pancakes. “You wanna get home?”

Mickey's whole body sags with relief. “Fuck yeah.”

 


End file.
